A Very Supernatural Christmas - Part Deux
by bluecrush611
Summary: Sam and Dean investigate signs of a Santa-clad serial killer. What Dean doesn't anticipate is his surprising interaction with their witness. Warning: smutty goodness.


**A/N: I'm back with a short story just in time for Christmas! I wrote this for my writing group and figured I'd share because I had a lot of fun with it. Santa, snow, and smut... What more do you need?**

**Happy Holidays and enjoy! ;)**

* * *

Bridget Simms scrubbed her face, removing the heavy makeup from tonight's holiday party at work. Her Yankee Swap gift had been a hit, and yet, she'd ended up with a completely useless one: a rock. Yes, a rock—and not a piece of coal, because that would have been fitting.

Her co-worker Mary said it was a good luck stone.

Bullshit. It was a probably a rock from the lakeside beach thirty miles outside of town.

If only Mary could have taken after her Christmas namesake. Like, the other Mary gave them Jesus. That was pretty awesome. Where did this one get off giving away something that cost absolutely nothing? It wasn't even re-gifted, like most Yankee Swap things.

Sighing out her annoyance, Bridget turned off the bathroom light and walked toward her bed. With a scathing glare at the rock on her nightstand, she took off her glasses, switched off the light, and crawled under the covers.

A single strand of white twinkle lights warmed the mantle in one corner of the room, hedging her bad mood. If only everyone loved Christmas as much as she did. At least her housemate was a fan. It would be hard to share a space with someone who didn't love "the most wonderful time of the year."

Bridget was almost blissfully asleep when a rustling noise roused her attention. It sounded like a mouse was exploring the dark, empty fireplace, which wouldn't be anything new in their house. Critters scurried in their walls all the time. It was just part of an old house in winter.

When the noises continued and grew louder, Bridget sat up in bed and began to reach for her glasses. Falling pebbles and a cloud of soot shot out from the fireplace, causing her to flinch back in surprise. Waiting, frozen by fear, she scuttled backward when a red and white figure emerged from the settling cloud. She screamed as its hands grabbed ahold of her.

In the ensuing struggle, she barely heard Mary's good luck rock clatter to the floor.

* * *

Keltie Douglas frowned at the two men on her doorstep. She'd already talked to so many cops. What more could they want to know? Though, it did help that they were easy on the eyes...

She would probably go to hell just for thinking that at a time like this.

"Miss Douglas, I'm Agent Hetfield, and this is Agent Ulrich. If you can spare a moment, we'd like to ask you a few questions."

She glanced at Ulrich, the taller of the two, noting his kind eyes. Looking back at Hetfield, she was immediately pulled in by, well, everything: the faint stubble surrounding his full lips, neatly trimmed dark hair with lack of a receding hairline, and of course, his dreamy green eyes. Bridget always teased that eyes were her weakness, which her housemate was totally right about.

Bridget. Poor Bridget.

So much blood...

Keltie swallowed hard against the sudden knot in her throat. The agents must have seen her hesitation because their expressions softened a bit. She'd never met an FBI agent, let alone two, but she'd always been under the impression that they weren't particularly personable, that information was their bottom line and they didn't have time to hold the witness's hand. Maybe these guys didn't fit that assumption.

Pushing away her distracting thoughts, she figured the agents had stood out in the cold for long enough. Maine winters were harsh and erratic, and this one was no different. Today it was forty degrees and sunny; the next day would bring colder temps and snow.

"Please come in," she said, leading them to the living room.

In the middle of the room, a white cloth couch with two matching easy chairs surrounded a stained tree-trunk sliver that constituted as her coffee table. Across from that stood a cobblestone fireplace, its inside littered with the remnants of long-dead embers. Above the mantle, Drew Carey encouraged a contestant to spin the Price is Right wheel on a large flat screen television.

Keltie picked up a remote and turned off the TV, delving them into silence.

"Nice place," Agent Hetfield commented.

"Thanks, this is our favorite room..."

"I can see why," he said and smiled, his voice hinting at sympathy.

She gestured for them to sit down.

"Speaking of Bridget, how is she doing?" asked Agent Ulrich.

"Hanging in there. She's got more stitches than one of these throw pillows, and her spleen had to be removed last night. But you probably already know all that." Keltie eyed them from her chair. "Please tell me, why is the FBI interested in this case? Most people don't even know Maine isn't part of Canada. I'm surprised you were able to find your way here. No offense."

Hetfield waved it off. "None taken. This was a little off the beaten path, but no less important. We're investigating because this may not be the first incident."

"Oh." Keltie paused in thought. "Like, here in town? I think I would've heard of it."

"We're not sure yet," answered Ulrich. "How long have you lived here?"

"Bridget and I moved in this past summer. We graduated from UMaine in the spring and began working at the hospital up here not long after."

Hetfield nodded. "Are you two, uh, together?"

"Like, lesbians?" She thought she saw Ulrich elbow him in the side, but it could have been her imagination. "No, she's my best friend. We're practically sisters."

Ulrich, most likely attempting to change the subject, asked, "Where were you when the incident happened?"

Keltie felt her body stiffen as a chill raced down her spine. She didn't want to revisit the events of the night before last, but the thoughts kept coming back anyway, even if she pushed them away.

"I was in my room." She gestured upstairs. "Reading in bed. We had just come home from our holiday party at work. I heard Bridget leave the bathroom and go into her room. Ten minutes later..." She stopped, shuddering involuntarily.

"It's okay," said Ulrich, though his tone conveyed an urge for her to continue.

"Bridget...she...she started screaming. I grabbed the fire poker from my room and ran into hers. This...man...was on top of her. I tried to hit him with the poker. H-he vanished...and then I saw Bridget." Keltie cringed and curled inward, wrapping her arms around herself. "He had stabbed her so many times," she said, her voice strained. "I don't know how she survived..."

The two agents exchanged a look, then Hetfield spoke. "You said the man vanished. Did he go out a window? Or run downstairs and out the front door?"

Keltie shook her head.

"Did you recognize the man? Do you know him, or have you seen him before?"

She tilted her head and grimaced. "Yes...and no." She shook her head again. "You'll never believe me. Bridget told the police the same thing but of course they didn't believe her. They said it was just her trauma talking."

"Who did you see?"

"You're going to think I'm crazy."

Hetfield leveled his gaze with her. "You'd be surprised. Try me."

After a long beat of silence, she said, "It was Santa."

* * *

Dean got behind the wheel of Baby and swapped a knowing glance with his brother Sam.

As they pulled away from the curb, Sam asked, "Do you think we're dealing with another Krampus? Pagan gods doing rituals?"

"God, I hope not," Dean muttered. "And I didn't spot any meadowsweet."

"Yeah, the tree in the living room was fake; as was the wreath on the door. Everything else looked like it came straight out of the box from Target. Still, something could be hidden."

"Do you want to go back and look later?"

"Nah, I think I need to do some more research first."

Dean put on their blinker and turned into the nearest motel, which appeared just as shitty as all the other places they usually stayed in. "Well, just say the word, Sammy, and I'll go back for a looksie."

"Of course you'd say that."

Dean feigned ignorance. "What?"

"Miss Douglas—the witness?"

"What about her?" He parked outside the motel office and turned his head to stare at Sam.

"She's beautiful, that's what."

"Damn straight." Dean cracked open the door, and as he got out, said, "Dibs."

* * *

They checked in to the motel, got a bite to eat from the diner next door, and then settled in for a night of research, which was mainly Sam looking up everything while Dean watched cable and drank a beer.

"Bingo. I think I've got it," Sam said after hours of just a droning television between them.

Dean pushed up from the bed and walked over to Sam's laptop in the dining nook off the kitchenette. He took a pull of his beer and leaned down to see the screen.

"Their house was built in the 1800s by a family of loggers, which would explain all the fireplaces. It was passed down from one family member to the next, and then the lineage stops. There's an article here from 1936 about a murder that occurred in the home. Patrick Harper was put on trial for killing two women with a hunting knife, but wasn't convicted. A year later, he killed three more women. He died in a stand-off with police."

"It sounds like the MO fits—"

"They called him the Santa Sleigher, because he was dressed as Santa when he committed the murders."

Dean's brows rose. "Well shit. So, what, we're dealing with the ghost of a Kris Kringle serial killer?"

"Sure sounds like it. The iron in Keltie's fire poker would have dispelled the spirit. That would explain why she didn't see him leave and he just vanished."

"And I thought we'd heard it all." Dean shook his head at the ridiculousness of the whole thing.

"So the next question is: How do we stop it?" Sam asked.

"Well there must be some kind of record of where they buried his body."

"I haven't found anything yet. I guess those records are kept at the local historical society, and they're only open Tuesday evenings and Friday mornings."

"Small towns and their weird hours," Dean mumbled.

"Yeah, well, at least tomorrow is Tuesday. I'll plan to make a trip over there after dinner."

"And while you do that, I'll keep an eye on Keltie."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Hey, I'm not planning to interact with her in any way. I'll just stake out her place until she leaves, and then I'll search the inside. No hanky panky."

"Gross, Dean. Who says 'hanky panky' anymore?"

"A guy who's actually getting some, so can it."

"You're such an asshole."

Dean smiled and toasted his beer bottle. "Love you too, Sammy."

* * *

There was no way Dean would be getting into Keltie's place tonight. Not with the incoming snowstorm impeding most of his view and rendering her housebound. He had sat outside for over an hour, and all he'd managed to do was get stuck in a snowbank.

So he admired the glow coming from within her living room, the sparkling Christmas tree showcased front and center in the picture window. Occasionally, Keltie passed by, just a glimpse on either side of the tree.

Dean's eyes wandered down the block, observing the multi-colored light displays. When he scanned back to Keltie's, a figure walked through the living room, but they weren't wearing pajamas.

It was the red and white that caught his attention.

The lights on her tree began to flicker, as if they'd suddenly been switched to a strobe setting. Dean threw open his car door and raced to the front of her house, trying not to slip and slide the whole way. He kicked open her door just as the ghostly Santa raised his knife over an unsuspecting Keltie.

The loud bang of the door caused her to spin around and catch sight of the murderous spirit before he could impale her with his weapon. Dean lifted his sawed-off shotgun and fired a salt round into the figure, causing it to dissipate.

Keltie fell back against the arm of the couch, her hands out in self-defense. "Please, don't hurt me… Wait. Agent Hetfield?"

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted him, eyes wide.

"You saw him, right?" She pointed a finger at Dean. "I'm not crazy!"

_Crazy hot, _Dean thought but kept to himself. "You're not crazy, Keltie. My name's Dean. And Agent Ulrich? He's my brother. We aren't FBI; we're hunters." He figured it best to lay it all out and then maybe it wouldn't seem too wild in comparison to what had just occurred.

"Hunters? Usually in Maine that means you're someone who spends hours in the woods getting drunk. But I'm thinking that's not what you mean…"

He chuckled quietly and shut the door behind him, gauging her expression to see if she looked like a trapped animal. To his surprise, she didn't seem bothered to be alone with him. If anything, she looked relieved.

"No, we're not that kind of hunter, though I've been known to do those things on occasion," he said with a charming smile. He took a careful step toward her, occupying the wide doorway. "We hunt the things people can't explain; scary creatures most think are only in nightmares."

"He's a ghost, isn't he?"

Dean's brows jumped up. "How—?"

"I took a folklore class in high school. Your gun had salt, right? That's supposed to ward off evil spirits."

He took in the biting scent of rock salt and realized he'd gotten so used to it that it almost didn't register to him anymore.

That probably wasn't a good thing.

"Yeah, and iron works too. That's why your fire poker made him disappear the night he attacked your roommate." As she glanced at her lap in thought, he said, "You saved her life."

Keltie scoffed and met his eyes once more. "I'll leave that to the doctors."

Dean liked this woman. Humble, sharp, beautiful…

After a moment of silence, Keltie asked, "Is he going to come back?"

"The Santa Sleigher?"

"_The what?"_

"Sorry, I guess I should catch you up a little more. But, yeah, he will probably keep coming back until Sam destroys his body."

"Sam? Is that your brother?"

Dean nodded.

She glanced outside at the snow. "I don't think he'll be digging up any bodies tonight. Or any time before April."

"Good point. It's also possible that the spirit is tied to something in this house. Do you mind if I have a look around?"

"Listen, I trust that if you had meant to hurt me by now, you would have. But I also just met you, so you have to understand that I'm not going to let some guy look through my stuff."

"Well, I don't think what I'm looking for would be with your belongings. I mainly need to look in the attic, basement, crawl spaces…"

"That's not creepy or anything."

"Creepy keeps me in business, darlin'," he said, smirking.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that, because I really want to keep trusting you."

"Point taken. So, what do you want to do?"

Dean tried really hard not to read into the double entendre of that statement, especially since, for once, he hadn't meant it that way, but when Keltie's cheeks turned pink, he wondered if he wasn't the only person with their mind in the gutter.

"Well, I guess you probably should check those places, if it helps," she said.

"Okay."

He turned to leave the room and she stood up, shuffling across the area rug in her slippers until she stood before him. He tried to ignore the natural shape of her breasts that signaled she wasn't wearing a bra underneath her thin, long-sleeve shirt.

"Oh you're not leaving me here alone with that psycho spirit. I'm going with you."

Dean began to protest but realized she had reason to be afraid. Clearly, she wasn't safe alone, so until they figured out a way to kill the Santa Sleigher once and for all, they would need to stick together.

* * *

Dean's phone rang as he and Keltie reentered the living room hours later. He put it on speakerphone.

"Sammy? Please tell me you got something."

"_I do, but you're not gonna like it."_

Dean took in Keltie's nervous expression and felt his gut clench. "Out with it."

"_I found the death certificate for Patrick Harper, and…" _Sam cleared his throat._ "He was cremated."_

"Shit."

"_Yeah, but this could be good news. I wouldn't have been able to hit up the cemetery anyway."_

Dean glanced at Keltie and she smiled. His gaze landed on her lips and he had to fight the urge to lower his head for a taste.

"_But luckily I think I have another lead."_

"What is it?"

"_According to this report, his Santa suit was filed as evidence."_

"Oh good. Find it and burn it. Easy peasy." He didn't want to leave Keltie so soon, though…

"_If only. It's kept at the State Police offices in Augusta."_

"Where's that?"

"About two hours away. On a sunny day," Keltie supplied.

"_Yeah…so it's going to be awhile. I think you two should just hunker down and I'll try to get there by morning."_

Why was Dean suddenly so happy about this? "Sounds good, Sammy. Take it slow. It's a bitch out there."

Sam hung up and Dean put away his phone. He and Keltie exchanged an awkward glance and he smiled to relieve some of the tension.

"So, where do you keep your salt?"

* * *

Sitting surrounded by a large ring of salt, the living room fireplace crackled with life before them. Dean leaned back against the front of the couch and took a swig of beer. Keltie picked at the label on her own as she mirrored his image at the other end of the couch.

"So you're telling me that everything I've ever feared…is real? Monsters under the bed and all that?"

"Pretty much."

Keltie seemed to think about it and then heaved out a sigh. "I'm never sleeping again."

Dean cracked a lopsided grin. "Well as long as I'm here, you have nothing to worry about."

"But you won't always be here."

Did he hear a hint of disappointment in her voice? That was probably wishful thinking.

"Most people don't need to worry about this stuff in their lifetime. After this, you should be in the clear."

"But not you. You go looking for it. Why?"

Dean stared into the lashing flames, feeling hypnotized by their sultry dance. "It's just who I am. I was raised this way. I don't know anything different." He looked back at her with a smile, as if to soften the depressing statement.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly.

"Ah, don't be. I get to travel around and see places I wouldn't think of visiting but I'm glad I did."

"You must get lonely, though."

"I've got Sammy."

Keltie let out a nervous laugh and bit her bottom lip before saying, "That's not what I'm talking about."

Dean swung his gaze toward her, seeing pity reflected back at him.

He wasn't here for a pity fuck.

Wait. Who was he kidding?

There may have been pity in her eyes, but underneath it, he saw a whole lot of lust, and that was good enough for him.

Keltie pushed away from the couch and moved toward him, crawling into his lap. Her slender fingers traced his hairline and swept across the short strands to cradle his head. Dean closed his eyes and allowed himself to lean into her touch.

Then her lips were on his, teasing and tentative, like she just wanted to sample him first before diving in. Dean responded by coaxing open her mouth and taking her tongue inside. Keltie ground her warm center against him, no doubt feeling his arousal, even through the layers of material between them. He circled his hands around her waist and pushed back up against her, meeting the desperate movement of her hips. His hands slipped lower, beneath the lightweight cotton of her pajama pants, to fully grip her backside.

Keltie released a mewl of pleasure and his mouth absorbed it like a drug. He wanted more—needed more. Now that he'd tasted her, he knew he couldn't stop. Obviously if she told him to, he would, but she didn't seem in any hurry to do that.

She must have sensed a hint of hesitation on his part at that thought, because she said against his lips, "I want you, Dean. I want this."

In a desire-filled haze, he nuzzled her nose with his own and said, "Say that again."

"I want you…"

"No, say my name."

"I want you, Dean," she breathed, accentuating it with another undulation of her hips.

Feeling something snap within him, Dean lifted Keltie and held her to him as they moved toward the plush rug in front of the fireplace. He laid her out before him and then sat back to remove his button-up and t-shirt. At the same time, she crossed her arms and raised her shirt until she could fling it into a pile with his.

He had been about to start on his pants, but the sight of her bare breasts stopped him. He wanted to worship her slowly, thoroughly, but his body wouldn't allow that. It had been too long since he'd felt a woman's smooth skin beneath his rough fingertips; felt the heave of her breath as his lips ghosted over it.

He dragged his tongue along one curve. She tasted and smelled sweet, like vanilla cream. It was intoxicating, and even more so when his mouth closed over one rosy peak and Keltie arched into his touch.

Things seemed to accelerate after that. Before he knew it, she was naked before him. The heat from the fire mixed with the chilly draft in the house, causing small goose bumps to break out across her bare skin. He felt drunk on the sight of her—wanted to warm her up from the inside out.

Losing his pants, Dean removed the condom from his wallet and slipped it on. Keltie opened her legs wider, allowing him to settle in before thrusting deeply.

He'd heard a lot about heaven over the years. So much so that it almost didn't even seem that great anymore. But if there was a heaven—a good one—_this_ was it. Her velvety warmth was like a soothing balm on his damaged soul.

Speaking of damaged… Hadn't he been to hell recently? He'd died once or twice or a few dozen times. Did that make him a virgin again?

Well, shit.

It was a good thing he got to keep his memory, though. Otherwise, she might've been in for a disappointing evening.

And she certainly didn't sound disappointed.

The pleasure between them built to the point where he couldn't think anymore. Hell, he didn't want to think. He just wanted to _feel_—Keltie's skin, lips, hair—everything was just so…soft.

He came hard, the sensation rocking him to his soul, which was very much intact tonight.

* * *

Keltie awoke sometime later, a coolness creeping across her arm where it rested across Dean's chest. Yeah, so she'd slept with a man she'd just met the day before. He could have been a major weirdo, maybe even scarier than the spirit that seemed to have it out for her.

But for him to give her that kind of pleasure? No, he was definitely all right in her book.

Something about Dean made him different than all the other men she'd met in her short adult life—and she wasn't just talking about his appearance on the outside.

Keltie opened her eyes—and was met with cold dead ones on the outside of their salt circle. With a gasp, she sat up, bringing the knitted throw blanket with her.

"Dean…" she whispered.

"Mm? Yeah?"

"He's here."

Dean's eyes flew open, and she barely had enough time to blink before he had her pushed behind him. Luckily, he'd been smart enough to at least put his jeans back on before falling asleep. She only had his t-shirt.

The Santa Sleigher remained at the edge of the circle, knife hanging at his side, its blade glinting in the glow from the dying embers.

"He can't get in, right?" Keltie asked, gripping Dean's bare shoulders.

Before he could answer, Keltie's front door burst open. A rush of cold air and snow swept across the floor, breaking the line of salt.

"Shit. Keltie, get out of here!" Dean shouted.

She pushed herself up and ran for the front door, but it slammed in her face. When she looked back, the spirit had already gotten to Dean, its ghostly fingers wrapped around his neck. Panicking, she looked around, and spotted the sawed-off shotgun. She clambered across the hardwood floor, raised the weapon and fired.

He exploded into a cloud of smoke.

Dean collapsed to the floor, holding his throat.

"Are you okay?" Keltie asked as she knelt in front of him.

"Peachy," he said, his voice raspy.

"Come on, we should both get out of here—"

"Keltie, move!"

The Santa Sleigher materialized behind her, his knife raised. As he brought it down, his skin suddenly became bright, as if it were laced with fire. Only a second later, he burned up in a swirl of ash.

Keltie, who was embracing Dean, slowly relaxed her hold on him and turned around.

"What happened?"

At that same moment, Dean's phone rang.

"Sam happened."

* * *

"So where are you guys headed to next?"

Keltie stood on her porch, admiring the tall, brave men before her. They were a little rough around the edges, but that was what she liked about them. They were making a real difference in the world and most people had no idea.

Sam shrugged. "Not sure yet. We heard about some weird storms in Kansas. Might head that way."

Keltie nodded and hugged her sweater closer to ward off the winter chill. She gave Sam a brief hug and he promptly excused himself to go wait in the car. She knew he was just trying to give her and Dean a moment alone.

"Well, thank you, again, for helping me. I know Bridget thanks you, too." She smiled.

"Hey, I didn't do much. I think you can handle yourself," he said with a wink.

With an impulsive step forward, Keltie closed the gap between them and brushed her lips against his. He slanted his mouth, deepening the kiss for a few seconds longer than she thought he would. It was as if he were reluctant to let her go.

Eventually, though, he did.

"We'll come back and visit sometime, okay?"

She smiled again, forcing it to meet her eyes this time. "Okay."

"Merry Christmas, Keltie."

"Merry Christmas, Dean."

Lacking one last charismatic smile, he sauntered back to his car. As they drove away, he honked the horn and Sam threw her a wave. She returned it half-heartedly.

As much as it pained her to accept it, she knew they wouldn't be coming back.


End file.
